So often had Sally wondered,
Upon the trunk beneath the tree.
Too afraid to ask her grandmother,
What treasures laid nestled deep within.
It had sat there for weeks and weeks,
Collecting dirt, water, and her attention.
Both night and day with silver lines gleaming,
It made young Sally’s mind run reeling.
So she had to know what was laid far within.
One morning fair she did descend,
Before the cock crowd loud and clear.
Out an old and rusting door,
And into the October air so pure.
Her little hands trembled with excitement,
As she lifted latches so unassuming.
After three long clicks a quick look over shoulder,
Sally pushed up the trunks heavy lid.
Excitement died within her eyes,
As a smothering stench assailed her.
Her young form heaved to inside straining,
But something drove her to search beneath a cloth.
Sally’s fingers found a protrusion,
She firmly grasped and pull out an oblong thing.
An iron hammer dipped with red,
Clumps of hair still clung to its metal end.
As she pulled the weapon out further,
It caught upon an end of cloth.
And Sally beheld a broken smile,
With eyes frozen to either side.
She should have ran in the opposite direction,
Away from a waiting form.
She should have, could have, would have lived longer,
Except her grandmother was waiting there.
And now no one wonders about a trunk under three,
That’s innocently waiting for a time to go.